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somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now,
and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.’
‘Has it?’
‘A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an
hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—
—‘
‘You told us.’
We shook hands with him gravely and went back out-
doors.
There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden,
old men pushing young girls backward in eternal grace-
less circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously,
fashionably and keeping in the corners—and a great num-
ber of single girls dancing individualistically or relieving
the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the
traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated
tenor had sung in Italian and a notorious contralto had sung
in jazz and between the numbers people were doing ‘stunts’
all over the garden, while happy vacuous bursts of laughter
rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage ‘twins’—who
turned out to be the girls in yellow—did a baby act in cos-
tume and champagne was served in glasses bigger than
finger bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the
Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the
stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table
with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl who gave
way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laugh-
ter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger bowls